


La joie dans la douleur

by Halja



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: (well more like Tipsy Sex tbf), Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bottom Antonio Salieri, Coming Untouched, Consensual Kink, Denial of Feelings, Drunk Sex, Fluff and Smut, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild humiliation kink, Salieri can't stop being a Repressed Emo just because he's having hot kinky sex after all, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Indulgent, Shame, Spanking, Top Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29116518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halja/pseuds/Halja
Summary: A cacophony. A rhythm. A resoluton, of a kind.
Relationships: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart/Antonio Salieri
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	La joie dans la douleur

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Banned Together Bingo. Prompt: Gay Sex.

It’s the _cacophony_ of it – overflowing his mind and rushing forth from his body, taking form outside of mere thoughts in the thumping of his heart against the wall of his chest and the hitching breaths shaking him all over in great shivers and shudders, in the gasps choking out of his throat and the moans pushing past the barrier of gritted teeth to drip from his lips – leaving his head empty of all other sounds, empty of words.

It’s the _rhythm_ of it. The unfailing, unrelenting, maddening rhythm of the hand that strikes him, sparking fire over his overheated, awfully _tight_ skin. Making echoes of shock and pain reverberate throughout his whole body as his back arches again and again. Making exquisite, anguished pleasure bloom at the very core of his being, like roses laden with thorns…

And of course, _of course_ it would be _his_ hand to overcome this chaos of coarse, senseless noises spilling out of him, out of this vulgar, shameless thing he’s become, and to draw unfazed order out of it in a brazen melody of flesh hitting flesh that resonates high and clear above everything else, filling his ears, forcing him to _focus_ on it – while Salieri’s own hands move uselessly behind his back, held together by his own hair ribbon, fingers wiggling pathetically as if to grasp something he can’t name and can’t reach. Of course it would be _him,_ pinning him down with a hand resting on the small of his back, catching his flailing legs under one of his own as Salieri kicks and thrashes without meaning to, without even managing to hold on to what few scraps of dignity he could possibly salvage in his current position for all that he tries, and he _tries._

He tries but that’s never enough against the likes of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and it certainly won’t be enough now that he’s laying flat on his belly on the other man’s lap like a disobedient pupil taking his punishment, and bare in more ways than he’s ever thought anyone could _be,_ and helplessly rutting against Mozart’s tented breeches even as he tries to get away from the heat and the friction and the terrible, lovely, _building_ frustration of it all. And all of it is his own fault, all of it is because he _asked_ for this in one moment of folly, of – of guilt and rage and other, unspeakable things he found at the bottom of a wineglass. He wonders if Mozart is smirking down at him, if the red on his cheek and the spark in his eyes have turned into quiet laughter the moment he saw the sweat breaking over his brow and his limbs stiffening, or even before, when Salieri first took a deep breath and then another and draped himself over him.

He couldn’t see it even if he freed himself from Mozart’s leg and hand, lifted himself from his thigh and turned his head, not with his own cravat shielding his eyes and his hands still bound. And that should be good, because he really doesn’t want to see it – but at the same time, he _does,_ though he will not dwell on _that_ thought, and God, doesn’t this whole thing just keep getting inexorably more complicated? Like some sort of curse, trapping him into an inescapable maze of mad, strange feelings he does not understand and plunging him down into a whirlwind of foreign sensations, a spiral pushing him deeper and deeper, and deeper still…

Mozart’s palm stops to rest on his backside, pats it lightly and then maps the places it’s struck in a languid caress, rubs careful circles over stinging skin, and Salieri doesn’t know if it’s the sharp, empty feeling of _loss_ that rips the whine from his mouth – or the unbearable intimacy of such a gesture. When Mozart speaks, there is a smile in his voice. Despite everything, it’s not a cruel one.

«You’re still so tense,» he says, and Salieri feels himself flush even deeper, if that’s even possible, but this time in anger, and he wants to reply that if Mozart is going to take all of what’s going on inside his head, all that led him to this and is _keeping_ him here, in this moment that he already knows will haunt him, torture him, leave him restless and craving like _everything_ about Mozart always does, and make it into a mere issue of _relieving tension –_

Mozart’s hand slips between Salieri’s thighs and grabs him by the base, and Salieri bucks his hips into it and nothing comes out of his mouth except a loud, humiliating cry of _please._ Mozart chuckles, then, but again, not unkindly. The hand he still holds on Salieri’s back moves up to smooth his wild hair before snaking away to its former place, and he orders him: «Stop thinking about it. Just feel it.»

Is that what _he_ does? How his mind works? He just _feels_ his way through compositions that are already near-perfect on first draft? _Just_ feels the right notes after _just_ finding a worthwhile inspiration that will inevitably lead him to _just_ putting all other composers in Vienna to shame? He doubts it, and at the same time he’s sure of it, and he feels bitter laughter boiling in his chest and bubbling up his throat until Mozart’s hand moves, stealing the breath from his lungs.

After that, he can only press his face into the couch they’re – well, _Mozart_ is sitting on, but even that can barely muffle the loud sobs and the cries of relief those quick, calloused fingers bring out of him. Part of him is still vaguely aware that Mozart’s cut him off not once but _twice,_ both times taking him by surprise, both times controlling his reactions as expertly as if they were always his to direct, and feels it like a knife in his chest just as it feels it as an unwilling, delightful tightening in his muscles. But another part of him is just trying to breathe through this new assault, and too busy thinking about the fire raging in his groin to really care about anything else. He might even beg for _more,_ at one point.

At least, that’s what he assumes he’s done when Mozart snatches his hand away all of a sudden and lets long, agonizing moments pass – crawl – without touching him at all, leaving Salieri to first brace himself for _nothing_ and then shift awkwardly on his knee. But that’s just like Mozart, isn’t it? The childish fool. The immature cretin. The bloody idiot, the infuriating bastard, _quello stramaledetto figlio di –_

Mozart smacks him, harder than he would before. Bringing him back to himself in a startled gasp. «Maestro,» he chides, but the joke is obvious in his tone. «Just because I prefer my operas in German, _non vuol dire che non capisca l’italiano._ In fact, I’ve been told I speak it quite fluently.»

But that’s just some silly pretext, as Salieri learns about as soon as he wishes he could slap himself and Mozart resumes doing just _that_ for him, if in his own way. Lighter again, though not by much. Or perhaps it’s just that everything feels somehow more intense now, feels hotter and heavier and sharper and truly _more_ on his oversensitive skin, in his tired limbs as he slumps over Mozart’s body in a resigned heap of quivering, sweat-soaked flesh, and in the throbbing, unsatisfied ache between his legs. When he feels himself slip into a mindless _here and now_ that seems to stretch out forever in front of him and in the warm space between his own long sighs and groans and Mozart’s unintelligible murmurs, that he’s powerless – unwilling – to break out of or away from, like it’s a spell laid on his body and soul blow by blow. When he feels that he’s losing himself and dimly realizes he doesn’t care, and so he lets go of all that he is and of everything else, too, and _just feels it…_

Mozart doesn’t need to touch his cock again. Salieri spills against him, as well as on the fabric of the couch, most likely, and Mozart doesn’t say anything at all as he slowly caresses his trembling thighs, his aching buttocks, his heaving back and shoulders, his bound wrists and unbound hair. He doesn’t untie him, but maneuvers him off his lap and up on his feet, steadies him with firm hands when he sways and brings him down on his knees. Salieri thinks he hears him sit down again and fumble with his own clothing, and soon enough, Mozart pulls him between his legs, against his hot, bare hardness.

«Please,» Mozart says, and his voice is not nearly as firm as his hands, and Salieri is struck by the sour note of desperation coloring it. By the thought that he could say no and leave him like this, that he could ask to be freed and Mozart would do nothing but free him and let him compose himself and walk away.

Then he rests his cheek against Mozart’s thigh and hears Mozart hiss, feels the shiver running through him. He nuzzles his flesh, taking in the warmth and smell of him and the solid reality of his desire, and the shiver becomes a tremble. Salieri licks his lips and sets to work.

Mozart is heavy and hot, slick and salty in his mouth, between his stretched lips, on his tongue. Salieri sucks in his cheeks, sucks on Mozart’s cock and sucks it down as much as he can as he tries to breathe evenly through his nose, and Mozart fists his hands in his hair, grips it and pulls on it and twists it between his fingers to push deeper, thrust harder into him as he moans and pants loudly, openly above him.

It doesn’t last very long before Mozart, too, spills down his throat and trickles from the edges of his mouth. Pulls out, leaving him to gape for a moment before bending over him to wipe himself away from his lips and chin with a thumb. Salieri briefly thinks about catching that thumb between his teeth, then lets Mozart envelope him in his arms, lets himself be pulled up again and pressed to a heaving, clothed chest.

Mozart strokes his arms and rubs his wrists and his hands, after untying his ribbon and letting it fall to the ground, but he doesn’t let him remove the cravat himself. He takes his time touching his cheeks, his brow, the sides and the back of his head and the nape of his neck, and Salieri is too tired, too sated and mellow to feel any real impatience over it. When the blindfold slips away, he pulls away, too, just a little. Just enough to satisfy yet another irrational, reckless impulse.

Mozart’s eyes are wide and shiny, so much that it’s almost too painful to bear their gaze upon him. Salieri doesn’t look away from his face, but he looks down enough to see his shiny, earnest smile instead. That’s not much better.

But he doesn’t try to get away from Mozart, not even when Mozart raises a hand to wipe at Salieri’s eyes with the back of it, making Salieri shudder with the sudden knowledge of their wetness, and then hugs him close again. Not even when Mozart rests his chin on his shoulder and runs gentle fingers up and down his spine. Humming contentedly, and wouldn’t you know, even _that_ is graceful and cheerful and lovely. Salieri finds that, for once, he doesn’t care.

He might even close his eyes and hum along a little.


End file.
